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Alone I sit in my room
With writers block looking at a black page of gloom
I sit and think all night
Not coming up with anything with all my might
For today is as hot as sun beaming down
I stand up and find myself looking around
No ideas or notions of progress
I begin to hate this mess
Now dark I look up at the moon
It seems to be so in tune
An idea of a wonderful love
With a hawk and a dove
A paragraph at a time
The words float upon the page like the sound of a chime
Even after paper cut upon paper cut I write
With no possible end in site
The smell of the morning dew
Like the smell of warm hot stew
And a new morning begin a new day
Oh will my ideas ever stay